Cat's Cradle in Red
by euphorbic
Summary: [Movie fic] A tale of entanglement. The cat-twins find their ties unraveling, while Sora wonders if her strings affect Folken at all.
1. slide

[Disclaimer: Escaflowne is copyrighted by the legal entities Sunrise and Bandai. The world, landmarks and characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Sunrise and Bandai reserve all rights to Escaflowne material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction (including repetitive scenes containing blood and bathing) are property of the writer.] 

[Note: This isn't spoiler intensive for the movie, but I think it would help to be familiar with the spoilerrific _Diaspora_.  It is worth noting that this started out as a one-shot called _Slide_ and has since been reworked and combined with an idea for a kitty-twin movie fic.] 

[This fic was inspired, in no small amount, by e-mails with NickelS (user: 162413).  Check out her site for the good ship Folken/Sora.]

* * *

Slide 

            It was an unwritten rule that she should sing for him alone.  There should be no other to take the immediate pleasure of her voice except the one who considered himself its owner.  When she was certain he was away, she sang anyway.  It wasn't that she was disobedient, rather that she knew nobody would risk a 'he-said-she-said' type of argument when she did.  Keeping in mind his predecessor, the equally violent Adel, the fortress' many soldiers found sense in not being the bearer of bad news.

            Though she was not considered a prisoner within the fortress, she did not often leave the large chambers accorded his rank as supreme military commander.  The acoustics left her much to desire, as it was designed around anything but the idea of carrying voices.  She contented herself with one of the many thin, floor to ceiling windows and the view of a waxing moon it provided.  

Her sleep was always fitful.  When Folken was there his moody restlessness, brought on by his consuming passion to defy fate, disturbed her.  Whether he was present or not, she contended with the nightmares of the hapless people he crushed underfoot.  In her habitual sleeplessness and mounting depression, she drifted so close to the glass that her soft singing left a visible trail in feathering fingers across the frigid surface.

            The cold radiating from the window kissed her lips with the same frigidity she could expect from his oft-insensitive mouth.  She was uncertain which of the two were more or less satisfying.  The song reached such low depths with her mood, she leaned forward in no small amount of humorous self-pity, to speak visible words into the mist her breath left on the glass.  

            "Perhaps," she whispered to the cold surface, creating a montage of lip prints and feathers, "the glass."  She did not miss the appearance of her words on the glass nor how inevitably they would fade away.  "They slide off."

            She startled when the narrow double doors slammed inward, nearly hitting her pale face against the window frame.  She had not felt him; she had been as close to self-absorbed misery as he.  Unprepared for his entry, she quickly did her best to exude the calm serenity that was usually every bit as natural to her as the Dragon blood pumping through his veins.  

            He did not come close to noticing her remarkable transformation as he strode into the room and past.  His furrowed brow, the whirlwind of confusing emotions encompassing his mind, and the hard concussion of the doors as his power slammed them shut in the face of one of his respected generals; all the hallmarks of another set-back or a new annoyance in his quest for Escaflowne.  Very few people made it to his quarters, fewer still were allowed entry, and none, save the select servants he assigned her, were allowed beyond the doors since her arrival.  That the man outside had followed so far could only mean trouble, that Folken had not slain him outright meant the man was indeed valuable.

            The crashing of the doors still reverberated around the room as she considered following him.  Pointless?  How pointless?  And yet, her feet whispered forward, her long gown brushed the ground, and the soft tinkling of the gold at her wrists told the story as she rounded the corner.

            She found him at the mirror set over the room's convenient washbasin, staring at his reflection.  It wasn't the first time nor, she decided, the last time she would see him wrestling in his private war.  The anger and hatred flowing from him was stronger than ever, nearly forcing her out of the room.  Finding her footing difficult, she advanced as he continued to glare into the mirror.  

            When he began to speak, she was startled again, for he wasn't one to parse words with himself, at least not in the semi-public of her presence.  "You won't win," he growled from deep within his chest.  "You're dead.  The failure in me is you and that can be bled away."

            Nor was he one to waste words on dead men.  Which one was it?  Not Adel, for the late military commander had been almost a complete stranger to failure.  The former Dragon King?  Likely, for the mention of blood, even more likely for the depths of rage his memory could inspire.

            A sudden spike in his rage foretold possible self-annihilation, prompting Sora to cry out in shock.  She threw her hands out in horror as Folken whipped his hands back and over his shoulders and sank toughened fingers into his worked leather coat and mail shirt.  He pitched both up and over his head in a black arc that ended with an explosion of glass and ceramics as they collided with the basin, pitcher, and mirror.

            Sora knew that property damage wasn't his aim, could see the future he was actualizing before he could create it.  She also knew that to get in the way of his fury was foolish beyond all other foolishness.  But she did.  The window couldn't change what it was, but Folken had changed before: once upon a time, his name had been Dune.

            White hands encircled the blue-lined arm closest to her and threw all her meager weight behind it.  She knew it made no difference, he was the dragon she had always known; there was little she could do while he was blind to all but himself.

            When his arms surged up and back again, ripping at the thin undershirt that had remained behind his armor, she felt her feet leave the ground.  Her weight meant nothing to him even in those uncommon moments he recognized her presence.  In the same instant, in his mad impatience, black feathers were siphoning from his back in a flurry of sleek magnificence, ripping the rest of the shirt away from his too-hot skin.  For a moment, she was lost in transition.  Soft feathers; sleek, black satin and down were going one way and she another as she maintained her stubborn, fruitless, grip on his arm.  She wanted to follow the feathers back to their source and stop the terrible irony.  In a way, he granted her wish.

            As she turned back, caught between heart-rending hope for those wings and the despair she knew would follow, she found the arm she held mirroring the one opposite.  His long-fingered hands, tough and calloused from wars he never needed to wage, found the root of each wing with instinctual ease.

            "No," she whispered futilely, but she felt the tendons in his arms bunch and the Dragon power he hated as much as he needed spiked again.  Then followed the hideous sound of ripping flesh, waves of excruciating pain, and debilitating nausea. 

She was not unused to blood.  How many times did he return to his quarters without removing the evidence of his blood lust?  How often she dreamed of the slaughter he put her village to.  Even that left her sorely prepared for the level of self-mutilation his hatred had inspired.

* * *

The stars were pinpricks in a black veil, hiding eternity, while the Phantom Moon lived up to its name, moving slowly across the sky in a shroud of crystalline gauze.  The light cast down on Eriya lit her up in an equally mystic apparition; her fur shone brightly, gathering and reflecting the cold light in a dreamy nimbus while she waited in one of the large and raucous tavern's narrow windows.

Her ears swiveled and flicked, unconsciously picking up cheers, snippets of songs, and the exclamation point of breaking glass.  None of it was what she really wanted to hear and none of it was what she really did _not_ want to hear.  What she hoped for, waited for, was the secretive sound of bare feet on stone that heralded the beginning of another strenuous journey.

She felt her sister's warm presence nearly at the same time as she heard her careful footsteps.  A smile formed on her formerly blank countenance as she grasped either side of the windowsill and tipped her head backwards.  The glass beads in her hair struck up an unintelligible tune against the wall as she looked upside down at Naria's quiet approach.

"Asleep?"  She asked with sympathy.  Some moments were luckier than others; Dryden had managed to snag her sister for drinks after their nightly performance.

Naria stepped up to her silver twin before dropping an affectionate kiss on her pointed chin.  "Unconscious." 

Neither of them disliked the tavern's charismatic and frighteningly brilliant owner, but they were never completely sure how much of his extravagant behavior was real or assumed.  They couldn't help but find they actually liked the strange man, but neither looked forward to the possible prospect of spending a night with him.  Not when they only had eyes for someone else.

Eriya smiled warmly, eyes squinting happily.  "I thought the alcohol smell in your glass was weak.  Did you cut with water?  He must have known and let you."

Shrugging, Naria tugged gently on her sister's spotted ears.  "You deny that I'm getting better at holding liquor and switching my glasses.  Have more confidence in me.  Don't you think our master will be pleased?"

A dark emotion wilted Eriya's smile.  She sat up slowly and turned, pulling a leg over the windowsill so her sister could sit facing her.  "Why should he be pleased?  He has that other pet now."

It was only natural that they should be bitter, Naria supposed, but the best way to combat it was through the kinds of victories their savior from the Black Dragon tribe would appreciate.  In a show of careless grace, she slid sideways into the windowsill, her body flush with her silver twin's.  "Sky above," she mocked in a sly whisper meant to provoke humor, "you need to lose weight or we're never sitting here again!"

She didn't want to be cheered up with the loving barb, but Eriya couldn't help a smile.  "You're just jealous because mine are bigger than yours."

Naria continued the girlish joke with a sniffle, "Now we know who will receive more of our Lord's favor _and_ he'll know how to tell us a part in the night…"

An exasperated snort sounded as Eriya leaned forward to place her chin on her sister's shoulder.  "Don't be silly; the new girl doesn't even have any.  For all we know, he likes young effeminate boys in dresses."

Both erupted into soft sneezing laughter, which they tried to angle out the window as to not reveal their rendezvous.  At length, the two subsided into shudders of merriment with the only noise being the pleasant tinkling of the glass beads in their hair.  In the end they slipped their arms around one another in a loving embrace.  "He's a strong man and she's fragile," one whispered into the other's ear, "one day that skinny pet will get broken."

They sighed as one before leaning out the window a bit more and then both chimed in hushed tones, "Then maybe we'll get to see the Captain of the Dragonslayers in a dress…!"

Quickly, the two slid their arms away from one another and slipped out the window into a controlled fall down three floors to the steep roof.  They were still chuckling as they bounded down the roof's short incline to leap down into the structure's well-kept garden terrace and the flowing drop to the small wooded area just beyond.  It wasn't until they had quit the copse of trees surrounding Dryden's property that the two began to breathe a bit easier.  They recovered slowly from their amusement and the wariness of their positions within the Abaharaki's most important household.


	2. perfect world

[Disclaimer: Escaflowne is copyrighted by the legal entities Sunrise and Bandai. The world, landmarks and characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Sunrise and Bandai reserve all rights to Escaflowne material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.  Mostly because they don't always approach anything resembling quality.] 

[Note: This is the second most embarrassing chapter I have written.  I think the next one will be the _most_ embarrassing.  I hope NickelS will not be ashamed to have this one dedicated to her.  Yep, WaFF.  Almost completely OoC WaFF, but there it is.]

* * *

_perfect world_

He was too heavy, even without the added weight of his armor, for her to do more than drag him.  Having no desire to involve the few servants he'd assigned her, she had done just that.  Pulling him onto the bed they sometimes shared was out of the question.  Instead, she opted to make the floor as comfortable for him as possible, despite having no clear understanding of what was comfortable to him.  She supposed much of her ignorance came from his inability to apply logic to anything but mass destruction.

She was thankful that there were no monumental signs of carnage, despite the ridiculous amount of damage he'd done himself.  The blood soaking an ornamental rug and congealing on the stone floor, along with a few scattered black feathers was all that remained.  When he'd collapsed, taking her down with him, the gaping rents and jutting bone marring his back had receded into nothing.  The great black wings of his ancestry faded from his locked grip just as quickly.  She understood the truth of the matter and mourned his irreversible decision.  

Sora looked down at his face from where she knelt beside him.  It never ceased to perplex her that his countenance at no time seemed to relax into an expression of ease.  Not in sleep, not in unconsciousness: at his brow there always lay the creases of concentration and annoyance.

Not without some small amount of fear, for he was vengeful when caught unaware, she slipped a white hand to his face.  The opposite hand traveled up his side, tracing the blue lines on his arms, crossing those on his chest not concealed by strips of his shredded undershirt, to rest on his throat.  Beneath her fingers she felt his pulse once more since mopping the blood from his body.

Most living creatures' bodies would have succumbed to the shock he'd endured, but most living creatures didn't usually experience the sort of debilitating trauma the Dragon tribe's royal line seemed inured to.  His pulse had been wildly erratic before, but now it was strong and deep.  The warm pulse of blood within his body was comforting, reminding her of things he had forgotten.  The sound of the birds in his native country before the sun rose.  The feel of a child's hard embrace as he carried his precious cargo through the air.  

A smile drifted on her face as she recalled the warm sun on his back and the love of a little boy.  Absently, the hand she'd placed on his face began to smooth slowly across his forehead, seeking to extinguish the permanent frown etched on his brow.  His pleasant memories were buried deeply within him; nearly gone.  The only time she experienced them in his wakeful hours were in visions and when they worked together.  Sometimes, when he slept, she could dream his dreams.  The glimpses of his childhood were the only things that made the occurrence more blessing than curse.

The warmth of the sun on his back as his wings laid out over heated updrafts was easier for her to focus on, rather than the warm blood and pain of moments ago.  With him safely unaware, she allowed the pleasant memory to fill her breast.  In short time, her heart was filled in turn and a song again drifted up to the high ceiling of his bed quarters.  She did not know that by the time the song reverberated back from the ceiling to the two of them on the floor, he was no longer unaware.

Pain was nothing new.  It encompassed him in a morbid aura of unfocused agony connected with the abuse of his Dragon powers.  The effect reminded him of the lingering pain of being tattooed, except the heady calm that accompanied the bunch of needles and hammer wasn't quite the same as what he felt after… after what?  What had he done?

He was momentarily uninterested in what exactly he _had_ done.  Pain and endorphins put him more in mind of his body than his circumstances.  His eyes did not open immediately to connect him with the world he was feeling.  When the song began to permeate the room he was given pause.  There was strength in the woman's voice, it was a calm and gentle strength, not unlike a strength he had known in his past.  It was something he couldn't quite remember, a memory he knew to avoid.

Sora felt a rising sense communicate itself from his brow to her fingers.  The growing sense translated over with difficulty, complicating her song, but it also added a new dimension she was happy to feel.  Somehow, she smiled, a distant sense of a woman had entered his mind.  It felt… maternal.

There was a soft touch on his throat.  Normally he would have been alarmed, for the fingers there were pressed lightly on an artery he couldn't easily survive without.  Feeling them in conjunction with a soothing caress at his forehead calmed him.  The feeling was familiar.  If not for the lingering pain, he'd recall a moment of comfort he'd taken when he'd felt momentarily free.

Feathery white brows lifted in interest at a new insight; a different woman.  She knew he'd had lovers in the past, but she'd assumed he attached no feelings to anyone: perhaps not unlike the lack of emotion he often showed her.  Contrary to Sora's expectations, there was a sense of a woman running along his scattered perceptions.  The faint sense bespoke a woman with quick reflexes and a propensity for wit that had once brought a quiet laugh to his lips.

He allowed himself to continue relaxing in her presence, even when her song slowly became somewhat conflicted.  Not one to understand the complexities of emotions, he could only perceive that happiness was struggling with some sort of sadness.  Gradually, he lifted his eyelids to take in the sight of his singer.  Above him was the hazy shape of his seer; her head raised and pale lips open to release a song.  It wasn't a useful angle for discerning her expression, even if he were skilled in such endeavors.  It was odd, but there was something more to her that had little to do with his vaguely blurring vision.

Folken had always known Sora was beautiful, but he had found little value in her beauty other than how it increased her desirability and, thus, his status.  A lovely prophetess posed considerably more value, in the manner of a work of art, than an unremarkable one.  Not one to be swayed by aesthetics, he might have been just as pleased had her visions come from the twisted wreck of one of his sorcerers.  However, he would have not felt inclined to engage in a physical relationship with something of a sorcerous nature, short of the occasional surgery he found their type useful for.  It was more a matter of trust, for one could never trust a sorcerer.  Trust led him to allow an aesthetic sense still reside within him.  It swayed him very rarely.

He would later blame his faint attraction on her beauty, and he would blame his physical and spiritual weakness for acting on that attraction.  Despite the strength his arm lacked, he lifted it slowly, wavering slightly, in order to bring his bare hand in contact with the long column of her throat.  

Her concentration was so intense in glimpsing the face of the woman who had found occasion to elicit his extinct humor, she did not immediately notice the rough feeling of calloused fingertips sliding across her neck.  When the touch did register, her eyes widened in shock and the song wavered for an instant.  Her recovery, always lost on him, was just as quick and twice as cautious.

Gentleness was not in his nature, but in his weakened state his normal grace wore its guise: his hand threaded through the waves of frosty hair veiling her skin to grasp the nape of her neck.  Her song retreated in volume as she repressed the strong urge to shudder violently.  His touch sent a shock down her spine and across her pale skin.  When he pulled slowly on her neck, she allowed herself to bend with his wordless request, watching in fascination as her hair pooled on his chest and above his head; it coiled in circles and spirals as her face was drawn closer to his.

It didn't take her long to realize what was happening.  Her song had communicated her confused desires to Folken.  In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but find the situation amusing.  His power was great and, whether he knew it or not, always sought to work with hers.  They were always prey to the other's emotion, but his narrow focus on depression left her incapable of swaying him at any point.

His eyes were open, but she was careful not to look too closely at them.  They were dark in moon's dim light and full of notions better left unspoken.  All subjects had the potential to become dangerous territory, especially the ones that interested her.  She did not ask him why, only succumbed to his current intention, and allowed him to swallow her song as their lips met.

Normally it was he who dictated their relationship and her place within it.  She had accidentally manipulated him and found herself in a position to take unique advantage him.  The thought further amused her, though she understood there really wasn't much she could do with her temporary edge he wouldn't later make her regret.

When he finally released the pressure on her neck, she lifted her head slightly, looking down at him in an inoffensive way.  "Are you comfortable?"

Her melodious voice was little more than warm breath on his lips.  The words meant nothing to him though her intention seeped into his vague understanding.  Her hands said more by remaining on his throat and brow.  He lifted his other hand and captured the wrist that controlled the hand at his face.  In a smooth manipulation, he turned his hand around her wrist and entwined his fingers in hers.  "Sora."

He said little else, but it was more than she'd thought he'd give.  In her heart, she knew his intentions would change as soon as he recovered from his strange injury, but she would not deny herself the dying emotions his sick heart had produced.  When he gave voice to her name, she drifted down again, to taste a mouth less cruel and to grip the soft shreds remaining of his thin green undershirt.

* * *

To minimize the sound of their glass beads, Naria and Eriya had braided the other's thin braids into a single sparkling rope each.  It was just as well, for the tiny strands would have rung out a glorious tune of betrayal on the thick glass as Naria hung upside down, a terminal distance from the fortress' shadow.  She wasn't watching the ground or the shadow connected to the fortress by the massive chains anchoring it to the ground.  She was intent on cupping her hands on glass to block out as much reflection as possible.  What she saw beyond the glass was problematic.

Eriya snapped her sister's feet together twice.  She was impatient with Naria's silence and holding her over the lip of an irregularly shaped roof.  It was hard enough keeping a grip on the edge without the cold wind. "Come on," she whispered into the strong gusts, "do you see him or not?"

Naria could not hear a word her sister said, but the change in grip on her ankles was somewhat startling.  She trusted her sister implicitly, but with such a long way to the ground, she didn't fancy the idea of flying straight down to greet it.  

It was a hard decision to make.  Should she stay with her forehead and eyes exposed at the edge of the long window and risk being seen as the object of their affection was eclipsed in negative?  Should she snap her feet together to be dragged up and never learn how serious their competition was?  Should she even tell Eriya what was going on?  She could say that he wasn't there, but Eriya would probably know a lie for what it was.  Sighing, she slowly tapped her feet together twice.

With great care, Eriya hauled her sister up until Naria could hook her knees under her arms.  When Naria was securely hanging from her sister's arms by her legs, Eriya let go of her and reached down for her hands.  From there, it was much easier for Naria to switch directions and climb up her sister's body to the roof and then help haul Eriya up with her.

As soon as the two were together on the slanting roof, they lay back against it, flattening themselves as much as possible: it wouldn't do to be caught.  Folken had told them long ago that he would be forced to treat them like spies if they were ever caught trying to get in to report to him.  There had been close shaves, but their continued living attested to their effectiveness.

"Is he there?"  

This time, Naria heard her sister's question, even though she didn't want to.  She stared up at the frigid stars and sighed, breath ghosting out only to be ripped away by the ferocious winds.  "He's busy."

Even though she wasn't looking at Eriya's face, she could almost feel her sister squinting her eyes and twisting her dark lips into a frown.  "Busy?  Not sleeping, I take it?"

Naria edged closer to her sister, sharing her warmth, but also providing support.  "Do you want to take a look?"

Eriya snorted lightly, "Only if he's not with that girl with no figure."

"She's got more figure than I supposed."

Eriya's look became distinctly sour.  "That was an image cue I didn't want."

At a loss for words, Naria only shrugged.  She was as dissatisfied with their lord's change in taste as her sister.  They both missed training under his command and the times they'd convinced him to take leave with them since he'd rescued them in Asturia.  As far as they knew, he hadn't taken a single day's leave since he'd succeeded Supreme Commander Adel.  What time they had managed to take with him since his ascension had lacked meaning, though it was no less physical.  

Engaging him in conversation had always been difficult, but recently it had become impossible.  With the arrival of the strange, moon-bright girl, their relationship had ceased to be anything more than giving reports and taking orders.   

More inclined to immediate action than Naria, Eriya pushed the image of the fragile girl out of her mind and grasped her sister's forearm.  "We have to get instructions from him tonight in order to make it back to Dryden in time.  He's so obsessed with his plans that he'd be angry if we didn't show up.  As bad as his attitude has been lately, I don't think we can afford to wait around until morning."

The golden twin nodded her agreement, her trepidation clearly indicated as she bit her lower lip.  "True, and even if there's no reason for Dryden to suspect us, it would be better if we didn't raise any more notice from him than normal."

"Naria," Eriya sighed, trying however weakly to inject some humor into their depressing situation, "you just used 'Dryden' and 'normal' in the same sentence."

Despite the howling wind, Naria heard her sister and smiled faintly in return.  "Must be the air up here, because I think I'm beginning to prefer the missions more than the debriefings."

The silver girl leaned further into the golden one, pressing her joke further.  "You're saying you like Dryden?"

Naria shrugged, rotating her shoulders before turning over to begin the next climb.  "Even if he is eccentric, Dryden pays us on time, inquires after our health, and makes time for us."

Caught by surprise, Eriya let her sister get ahead of her.  Not knowing how to respond, she sputtered, "Folken pays us on time...!"  It was the lack of anything else to say that was the most telling.

* * *

[End note: Aggressive!Sora, who'd have thought that?  I really wanted to end that scene with Sora saying something like, "Make me believe it."  But the story isn't supposed to be comedic, even though it is beginning to seriously crack me up.  Next chapter features more of the twins and more melodrama than I've ever written in my life.]


End file.
